


Suffer Me

by steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb



Series: Ficlets [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Lots of pheels, Pheels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:11:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb/pseuds/steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb





	Suffer Me

Clint buried too many people in his lifetime.

First his parents, then he buried his brother right next to their joint grave. Then Buck Chisholm, his mentor. At one point, he laid Mr. Carson to rest in a little one-stoplight-town somewhere in Nebraska. Everyone he considered his family rested six feet under.

Then SHIELD had a service for the 114 lost in the Loki and Chitauri attacks. Of the 114 dead, Clint was responsible for 17.

He sat alone for most of that days leading up to the service, and every once in a while Nat would squeeze his hand and tell him to “not go there.” But she never explained what “there” meant. Other people reassured him, told him that there was nothing he could do and Loki was controlling him. Don’t beat yourself up. It’ll pass.

And that worked for a few days, until Fury sent Nat a message telling them to come back for Coulson’s funeral. For an hour he lay stretched across the floor with a breathing mask over his face to keep from hyperventilating so much he blacked out. Nat stroked his hair until he calmed down enough to process it.

He wore his dress uniform, the one with the stupid hat that Clint loathed with a fiery passion and shot holes in it once to keep from wearing it. But Coulson liked formality and rules, and Clint would respect that. And Clint stood at attention until he was asked to lead the pall bearers to the gravesite, walked ahead of the huge box to the pile of freshly-dug dirt. Stark and his stupid goatee and quarter-million dollar fancy suit was there. Captain America wore his own dress uniform. Tasha dressed conservatively, as per her norm.

Most of the remaining SHIELD agents attended, at least the ones not stuck in medical. Stark even flew in the cellist from Portland. His assistant dabbed her eyes from his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her waist the entire time. And despite Stark’s aloof demeanor, Clint could see the way Tony’s fingers pinched the hem of her blouse so tight his fingers lost their color, to keep himself from crying.

Another agent said a few words about Phillip J. Coulson, and then everyone dissipated. Stark and his girl immediately took off, a few agents milled about for a while before dispersing. Clint stood in front of the casket for so long the gravediggers left for lunch. “Fuck it,” they said. “He ain’t goin’ anywhere, we can ground him later.”

Cap was one of the last ones to leave. As Clint stood there, Cap appeared next to him. “He was a good man, I wish I knew him longer.”

Clint shrugged. “I knew him for ten years and you know about as much as I do.”

“He was very solitary, it seems,” Cap mumbled. Clint knew what that word meant. It meant alone. Coulson taught him the meaning.

“Coulson taught me how to read.”

Cap squeezed Clint’s shoulder. “So Phil left you with something.” And with that, Cap walked away.

Alone, Clint scratched at his neck and tried to steady his breathing. He would fight the tears. Coulson didn’t deserve tears. Not alive and especially not in death.

Coulson taught Clint how to read, to write his own name, to fill out checks and requisitions. Coulson dragged a very dead Clint Barton out of a lake and pounded on Clint’s chest to keep his heart going then blew air into his lungs until Clint coughed and vomited a gallon of lake water. The next week Coulson taught him how to swim. Clint knew how to use measuring cups and a stove, how to wear a suit, and how to balance a checkbook because of Coulson. Things a father normally taught his son. And as Clint doubled over in the dirt, one hand on the thick brown casket, he wished he could rip every last thing that Coulson taught him out of his skull. It would hurt less.

Of the 114 dead, Clint was responsible for 17 of them. Of those 17, one was Phil Coulson.


End file.
